The First Wives Club (59 page)

“A good cause.” Bob smiled.

“Whattzamatter? Aaron and the new wife won’t dance? He used to be the one who never sat down,” Brenda observed to Duarto, sotto voce.

“Look at her closely,” Duarto said. ‘Chee is one of those beeches that make a man pay and pay and pay. Chee weel grow fat while he grows theen.”

It was another New York society ball, including insults …

Stuart Swann, on his way over to say hello to Annie, watched, with some confusion, as Mary Griffin approached him from the opposite side of the room, smiling and waving. Why was she so happy to see him? Had something changed? He smiled back and raised his hand to greet her.

But Mary’s face didn’t acknowledge him as she moved toward the First wives Club table, where she greeted Elise and Annie and Bette.

“I heard that Gil had some input for Duarto.” Mary smiled. “You know, I hope you can forgive him if he was abrupt. The pressure of the business—” ”We don’t like to talk business at these event’s,” Bob Bloogee said. “But some people have always mixed business and pleasure.” Mary colored. Stuart watched her as she tried to be warm and charming, her blush heightening the effect of the fabulous pearl necklace that she wore, incongruously, with the milkmaid getup.

Stuart was mortified. Had anyone seen the snub? “That’s it,” he said to himself. “That’s it.” He’d been ready for a long, long time. I Ready and like a bomb, ticking toward an explosion. He strode out of the enormous room.

.

It was another New York society ball, with lime sorbet to clean the palate …

”Can’t we leave soon?” Miguel whispered to Annie.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Only for you.”

It was another New York society ball, with intrigues and gossip . .

.

“Who’s that?” asked Brenda, nudging Bob Bloogee and gesturing with her chin at a woman in black wearing what looked like a thousand carats of diamonds.

“The ex-Mrs. DeVere.”

“The diamond-mine DeVere?” Brenda asked.

“The same.”

“Jeer,” said Bette. “What a chandelier.”

“They’re fakes,” Bob told her. “They’re the paste copy of the gems she had, but remember, she’s the ex-Mrs. DeVere.”

“Yeah, so what? Don’t they have community property in South Africa, at least if you’re white?”

“More a type of equitable distribution. he kept the diamond mine, she got the shaft.”

“Do you see Jon Rosen, the good-looking one over there?” Gunilla Goldberg asked Khymer Mallison.

“Sure, the one with the two women leaning on him. The weird one and Morty Cushman’s wife.”

“Yes, well, he looks positively exhausted. They are both waiting to devour him and Bill Atchison is being ignored. It’s hilarious.”

“Ignored and cuckolded, I hear.”

“Yes.” since Morty Cushman’s unfortunate fall from grace, Gunilla had done some abandoning of her own. She had warned Shelby that during this awkward time she had to be above reproach, but the little silly was making a spectacle of herself with the Rosen person. Not only a Jew, but an intellectual, with no money to speak of. Some Rhett Butler! Well, Shelby would never make it now. She was seated at a dark table in the corner. Gunilla had washed her hands of her.

Also relegated to Shelby’s undesirable table were Aaron and his wife.

Dr. Leslie Rosen Paradise spoke in a voice that would have killed love had there been any left to kill, but very quietly, so only Aaron could hear. ‘I am outraged, Aaron, at being seated here. It is conspicuous ostracism. Anne must be behind this. I knew she was passiveaggressive, bUt really, I expected a bit more class. I did not marry you to be insulted.”

Aaron reached for his wineglass. Hell, he thought, it keeps on coming.

He looked at Leslie in despair. If it would have done any good, he would have told her that their marriage was over, that he knew they had little regard for each other left, and that the best thing they could do now was just shut up. But she was too angry. Why the hell was she that angry? It was he whose life was ruined.

The music swelled. Even here, in his frigid corner, it was a warm invitation to move, to sway. But Leslie didn’t dance. All at once, a desolation, a wave of loneliness and need, swept through Aaron. He thought of Chris, of Jerry, of Sylvie, of Annie. He longed for Annie.

He longed to hold her, to feel her responsiveness in his arms. He longed to hear her laughter.

It was an irresistible impulse. He would find Annie and ask her to dance. Annie would be amused by his costume, though he hadn’t gotten a smile out of Leslie. He was wearing his dinner jacket, but on one foot he had put a yellow sock and a swim fin. He had come as What Is Wrong with This Picture?

Leslie was in a high bitch of a mood. Annie would laugh at his costume. He rose, as if drawn to her like a dowser to water. He mumbled an excuse to Leslie and walked out from the shadows to the island where couples swayed together. She would be sitting there, he knew. And after just a few moments, his radar picked her out. She was in a strange outfit, something he couldn’t quite figure out, but she was smiling, and she was sitting with all her friends, Brenda, Elise, and people whom he didn’t know.

They were all talking and laughing gaily. He stood, watching them. He knew that much as he desired her, he hadn’t the courage to break into that circle. Why, Elise Atchison and Brenda Cushman had helped destroy him.

If only Annie would look up. If only she would sense him and come to him, feel his need.

But as he watched, she turned to the guy dressed as sir Galahad who was sitting beside her. He continued to watch as the stranger led her to the dance floor and put his arms around the woman Aaron loved.

Well, he could cut in. He knew how to do that, and she’d never refuse him. He slipped off the swim fin, placed it over his arm, and walked onto the dance floor. He made his way through the Marie Antoinettes and devils, finally reaching Annie, dancing with her knight. He tapped the guy on the shoulder.

As if in a nightmare, he turned to look into the face of Miguel De Los Santos. He pulled his arm back as if the chain mail were red-hot. How did she … he … how did they …

“How?How…?”

The two of them stood there, their arms entwined, and simply looked at him.

As Annie and Miguel walked back to their table, Stuart Swann nearly collided With them. He was walking unsteadily, too rapidly for the time and place. Annie guessed he must be drunk. He spoke to her.

“Watch this now, Annie,” he hissed. He seemed beside himself with excitement. “Watch this.”

What on earth is he up to? Annie thought. She looked after him and saw him sit down and turn toward the Goldberg table, his eyes glued intently on Gil Griffin. Annie followed his gaze and saw an attendant approach Gil with an envelope. Gil raised one of his bandaged hands in a gallant gesture to the rest of the table as if to excuse himself and, with some difficulty, opened the envelope. Annie felt a stab of guilt, then noticed that, to judge by Gil’s exaggerated movements, he, too, had had a good deal to drink. She glanced back at Stuart. His face was tense, excited, and malignant.

She shuddered and turned away.

Suddenly, she heard a loud shout from Gil’s table. She turned, as did many of the guests, to see.

Gil stood over a cowering Mary, his arms outstretched. In his right hand he held a piece of paper, which he was waving up and down.

“You unbelievable bitch,” he was yelling. “What the fuck have you done? You traitor! You dirty whore! You traitor!”

Now Mary Griffin was looking up at him. Her face was pale and her eyes were wide. She had leaned away from him at his first shout, but now sat paralyzed while he stood over her threateningly.

I “You traitor!” he yelled again, and began to raise his hand over his head. Suddenly, Mary slipped sideways out of her chair, turned, and began to walk quickly away. Gil overturned his own chair and went after her. He grabbed her arm and shoved the paper into her face.

“You filthy little lying slut.” His face was distorted with rage and his voice sent chills down Annie’s spine. This is what it must have been like for Cynthia, she thought. Annie turned her head. Several men had risen in readiness to intercede, but the rest of the Hall of the Temple of Dendur was silent and still.

“My God, it’s all being recorded,” Elise said, breaking the silence with a loud whisper. “Look at the reporters.” At the side of the room, the press was busily clicking and whirring away.

“Stay here,” Larry said to Elise, rising. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“What do you have to say about this?” Gil now yelled, slapping Mary with the paper. She began walking away again, out of the light, across the bridge to the island that led to the exit.

Sol Goldberg waddled over to Gil and began earnestly talking to him.

He tried to hold Gil’s arm to detain him, but Gil shook him off. The major drama apparently over, the crowd began to buzz and stir.

Annie watched as Stuart Swann went up to one of the reporters, handed him a piece of paper, and spoke to him briefly. Then he walked over to Annie.

“This is what made Gil go berserk,” stuart said quickly, shoving a sheet of paper into Annie’s hand. He then hurried away.

Annie unfolded the paper and looked at the photo upon it. Oh, this was vile, this was low. Annie stuffed the photocopy of Mary’s first wedding picture into her bag, showing it to no one. She knew, though, how bigoted Gil was. It made her sick that Stuart Swann had caused this hideous scene, had caused Mary to be physically assaulted, made her sick that Gil was this demented, made her feel shame for knowing him. She thought that she must destroy the copy quickly, before anyone else saw it.

Just then, Gil broke away from Sol and began to run down the corridor of the Egyptian galleries. Sol moved after him, and so did some others. “I think I’d better go, too,” Miguel told Annie, looking at her livid face. “Will you be all right?”’ She nodded mutely.

In the rotunda, Gil had just caught up with Mary, running now with hysterical energy. When he reached her, he tried to stop her, but she pulled away from him. In a rage, he snatched at her, grabbing her pearl necklace. Mary kept going, though her neck snapped back as Gil yanked on the pearls. For one long moment they stood, almost balanced, a strange pas de deux. Then she lunged away, and the necklace snapped.

The hundreds of huge pearls scattered, bouncing over the marble floor.

Now Sol, Miguel, and the other men reached the rotunda. But Mary was out the door, on the stairs outside. It was cold, with a wet wind whipping down Eighty-first Street. The steps of the Museum were treacherous with ice. Still in furious pursuit, Gil reached for her, grabbing her hand and swinging her around. Cameras flashed in the darkness. Mary screamed. He was about to strike her when she lost her balance and began to plunge down the stairs. Gil, feeling her loss of footing, released her hand.

She fell forward, then rolled, then tumbled. At last she came to a stop at the bottom of the wide marble stairs. She was barefoot. She lay facedown, still.

CYomwell Reed It and Weep The night of the ball had been the coup de grace for Bill. Before leaving home, Phoebe hadn’t let him see her getting into her costume until she was completely dressed, then presented herself to him with an exaggerated “Ta-da.” She had on thigh-high black leather boots with little fluffy stuffed bunnies pinned to the toes. She wore a chain vest over a black leather bra and had miniature stuffed teddy bears pinned randomly all over the vest.

Black leather Mickey Mouse ears topped off the costume, the total look was lost on him, and she refused to explain it. ‘Art needs no explanation, darling. Now be a good daddy and lay out a couple of lines of sugar for your little girl.”

He made a face. “It’s just to keep the edge on, darling,” she explained. He knew she was beyond the point of needing just an edge, but tonight he tried not to see it. sitting at the table with all the Cromwell Reed people and Phoebe’s mother, Julia Van Gelder, was excruciating, trying to control Phoebe’s drug use and behavior in the presence of her disapproving mother and his partners and their wives, especially Celia Reed.

When Phoebe began quoting Proust and inadvertently slipped into Mark Twain, he quickly led her away to the dance floor. She broke away from him, however, when she saw Jon Rosen. Together they hurried off to the secrecy of an alcove. Bill turned away disconsolately. He knew he was in for a long night. Jon Rosen used almost as much cocaine as Phoebe.

Bill glanced over to his table and saw that all there had their eyes on Phoebe, measuring her degree of inappropriateness with an imaginary thermometer. Celia Reed had just said something through very pinched lips to Julia Van Gelder, and Julia picked up her purse and headed for the ladies’ room.

As she passed Bill, she snarled through clenched teeth, her lips not moving, “Get her under control or get her out of here. Do you understand me?” She didn’t wait for an answer.

Bill intercepted Phoebe as she made her way back to the table and took hold of her arm forcefully. “Ow, does Daddy want to get rough? I’m dressed for it tonight,” she said in a baby voice.

Anything to get her out of here. “Why don’t we leave and you can show me the work that you’ve been keeping so secret at your studio?”

Needing no more urging, she grabbed Bill with one hand and a bottle of champagne with the other.

Phoebe was very excited, she had always said that Bill would be the first to see her finished work before it went to the gallery for the showing. As they got to her door, she stopped and said, “Close your eyes, it’s a surprise.”

As the door was opened, Bill’s first sensation was an odor, a bad smell. Eyes still closed, he heard the studio spots being lit one by one, then the popping of a champane cork. As he took his first sip, he opened his eyes, surveyed the room, and sputtered the unswallowed champagne down his shirtfront.

He tried to make sense of the brightly lit works, but couldn’t shake the belief—the hope—that what he was seeing was some kind of a joke.

But the odor was very real. It was worse than a stable. He stifled the urge to gag. I “Bill,” Phoebe cooed, not able to interpret his physical reaction because of the drugs and alcohol. “This is my greatest work!” Bill’s nausea increased as his eyes moved from one display to the next, noting the titles.